


Happy Birthday

by BrushDog



Series: University IwaOi [3]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Coming Out, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, M/M, Marking, Non-Explicit Sex, Seijou guys make cameos, So does Bokuto, Some Relationship Drama, it works out in the end
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-11
Updated: 2016-08-11
Packaged: 2018-08-08 01:36:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,418
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7738210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrushDog/pseuds/BrushDog
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's a lot that can happen in the days between Iwaizumi and Oikawa's birthdays. Iwaizumi faces what their relationship means for Oikawa's career while Oikawa makes his way towards the Olympic games.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Happy Birthday

**Author's Note:**

> Here we go. The third and (probably) final work in my university IwaOi series! There may be one more little side chapter of smut since this story is relatively clean, but this brings the story arc for these two to its close. I hope you enjoy it!

There are exactly forty days between Iwaizumi's birthday and Oikawa's. When they were younger it always seemed to be a point of contention. Iwaizumi would get his party first, with all the new sports equipment and toys that it entailed. Oikawa would put on the sort of face that meant he was sulking about it but trying not to show that he was sulking about it. When they were younger, that only seemed to hold for a few days before he'd burst into a fit of tears over how unfair it all was. Iwaizumi would snap at him for being a baby about it, but he always wound up sharing his presents in the end until Oikawa's birthday came around the next month.

Getting older had transformed Oikawa's temper tantrums into something more like playful teasing, a comfortable reminder with Iwaizumi's present that he'd be expected to return the favor in just a little over a month. More than once the thought had crossed Iwaizumi's mind that their delayed exchange of gifts was a little too close to what couples did on Valentine's Day and White Day. When he was younger, he'd shaken the thought off as some kind of weirdly overactive imagination. Where he is now, a week out from his 20th birthday, waking up with his nose buried into a pillow that smells like Oikawa's shampoo, chasing the fading warmth of where Oikawa lay beside him not more than an hour ago, he thinks the similarity works out just fine.

They're just over halfway through the semester, which nearly marks four months of living together. After Oikawa's surprise visit to Miyagi over the new year break and the start of spring break neither of them were willing to waste much time in finding a new place. In the end, they found a reasonable 2DK only a few stops away from Oikawa's old place, positioned as close to the center of their two colleges and the national team's training facilities as they could manage.

At first they had both set their belongings in their respective bedrooms, both of them strangely cautious on the implications of sharing a bed and knowing that it was "theirs" instead of belonging to one or the other. That decision had led to a month of swapping back and forth between half-used bedrooms and occasional heatless arguments over whose sheets they'd had to clean last and whose bed they'd be using next. When one of those arguments ended with sex in the living room for lack of a better decision, with Oikawa braced on his knees over Iwaizumi's hips, shamelessly riding his cock until they tangled bonelessly together on a couch that didn't quite hold either of them, Iwaizumi decided that he'd had enough.

"Tomorrow," he grunted from under Oikawa's weight, one hand tracing idle patterns against his hip. "I'm moving my shit."

"What?" Oikawa's head snapped up in an instant, eyes wide at the implication behind Iwaizumi's words.

"Not like that," Iwaizumi said, pinching against Oikawa's ribs until he yelped in protest. "Having two bedrooms is stupid. I'm moving my stuff into yours."

"Ah, really?" Oikawa curled against him, suddenly all smiles and contentment. "Iwa-chan, you want to share my bed forever now?"

"We only use one of them. Yours is bigger anyway."

"That's true," Oikawa had hummed before he leaned in to claim Iwaizumi's lips with his. Neither of them said much more on the subject than that.

As it turned out, once classes started up and Oikawa's training swung into full gear, neither of them had much time for anything other sleeping together in the very literal meaning of the word. Oikawa leaves every morning before Iwaizumi's alarm clock even sounds. Most of the time Iwaizumi manages a half-mumbled goodbye before he shoves his face into the pillows to chase the precious few hours of sleep that remain for him. One too many offhand comments about the state of his bedhead and the atypical serenity of his sleeping face tells him that Oikawa's probably built up a gallery of candid morning shots by now. Iwaizumi cares less about the pictures than he does about moments like these.

The summer sun has already hit high enough in the sky to paint it a brilliant blue, filling the bedroom with a crisp, warm light. Iwaizumi cracks one eye open to glance at the clock on the bedside table to confirm his suspicions that he's managed to beat his alarm clock out by mere minutes once again. With a sigh, he pushes up off the bed, crossing the room to his cell phone so he can just go ahead and silence it anyway.

There's an unread message waiting for him when he flips his phone open, there always is these days. It's from Oikawa.

He opens it, his fingers clenching around the phone a moment later.

"You didn't believe me so here's proof! Iwa-chan's adorable sleeping face!" the message reads, accompanied by a shot of Iwaizumi's face half shoved into the pillow.

Iwaizumi's already tapping out a reply as he makes his way into the kitchen for breakfast.

"Stop taking pictures of me while I sleep, asshole!"

His sets his phone on the table, moving to start the kettle on the stove. The phone buzzes again when he's pulling a bowl down from the cabinets. He swaps the bowl for his phone, flipping it open to read Oikawa's reply.

"So mean! It was just one picture!"

Iwaizumi rolls his eyes even though there's no one around to see it. He types back.

"You expect me to believe that you haven't taken more?"

Oikawa's left the rice cooker on to keep his leftovers warm. Iwaizumi dutifully scoops the remains out into his waiting bowl, flicking it off when he's done. His phone buzzes.

"If I have it's just because your sleeping face is so irresistible, Iwa-chan."

"Now you're making it creepy."

The kettle rolls, not quite boiling yet. Iwaizumi spares it a glance before he pulls the cabinets open, rummaging through his box of chazuke until he finds a packet. He rips it open, upending the contents over the waiting bowl of rice. He glances down at his phone. It buzzes.

"You're so heartless! What's wrong if I want to have something to remember my boyfriend by every day? It's so busy lately we haven't even had sex in almost a week, you know."

"You don't need to remind me," Iwaizumi types with a little more force than necessary. He pauses a moment, letting out a slow breath in a futile attempt to calm the heat tingling under his cheeks.

"I'm talking about what if someone finds your phone and goes through your pictures, idiot. How the hell do you explain a hundred pictures of the same guy's face?"

Iwaizumi turns to the fridge, reaching in to retrieve a half-empty bottle of oolong tea. Oikawa's next reply precedes the cry of the kettle by mere moments.

"I'm careful! No one's going to see them but me."

"Idiot."

Oikawa's reply buzzes in a moment later with a ridiculous looking kissy-faced emoji. Iwaizumi snaps his phone shut on it without a moment's hesitation.

The subject of exactly how their relationship could prove a risk to Oikawa's career isn't a new one. Although they had both been more than eager to close the distance that remained and find a place to call their own together, the extra bedroom served more than one purpose. It wasn't strange for a pro athlete to share an apartment with a close male friend. It definitely raised questions if anyone knew that they were sharing more than that.

Fortunately for both of them, the only people who visit with any regularity are those who seem to have seen their relationship as an inevitability. Iwaizumi had been nervous about coming out to Matsukawa and Hanamaki, but in the end it was Oikawa who had broken the ice, bluntly breaking the matter to them one night when they'd all been out after one of the games for the community team that everyone save Oikawa played for.

Iwaizumi had wanted to smack him upside the head for spilling the beans without any warning. In the end, Oikawa was saved by the fact that the reaction of their two closest friends boiled down to nothing more than two knowing grins and remark that it'd taken them both long enough.

Still, Iwaizumi isn't enough of an idiot to think that the rest of the country might be so accepting. Hell, even the thought of telling his parents still twists his guts up into knots, leaving a heavy feeling at the back of his throat that doesn't seem to go away no matter how hard he swallows. It may not wield the popularity of sports like baseball or soccer, but the men's volleyball team is steadily drawing more than its fair share of attention this year.

In all honesty, Iwaizumi blames Oikawa himself for that twist of fate. Since the call ups last year, the news coverage has been sparse, but Oikawa's always had the sort of presence that loves a camera. His attitude at the press conference following his first official international match up was just the perfect blend of cocky, youthful, flirtatious to catch the eyes and ears of news stations around the country. Having the skill to back it up certainly hasn't hurt, either.

More attention just invites more risk, in Iwaizumi's mind. As much as he might place the blame squarely on Oikawa's shoulders, he knows it isn't something that Oikawa could change about himself, even if he wanted to. The playful flirting and showy smiles might be the parts of Oikawa that grate on his nerves the most, but he knows that underneath it all Oikawa's magnetism is absolutely genuine. It's the reason that he can't bring himself to let go, even if he knows it won't make the road ahead of them an easy one.

Sighing, Iwaizumi shakes his head. They just need to make it past the games without any incidents. Oikawa's sure to draw some more attention to the sport and whatever team he winds up playing for, but it won't be the same sort of scrutiny that an international event brings.

He carries his breakfast over to the small table in the dining room where his textbooks are still spread open from the night before, casting the thoughts out of his mind as he tries to cram in just a little more before his exam later that day.

\---

When Oikawa comes back that evening, it's with a grand gesture. The door to their apartment flung open, his shoes colliding against the genkan as a exhaustively melodic "I'm home."

Iwaizumi barely has time to look up from his textbook and offer a "Welcome home," in reply before Oikawa's body collides with the sofa at his side.

"Ass!" he hisses next, shoving at Oikawa's body, rustling the papers beneath him. "Those were my notes!"

"Don't you think you've studied enough today, Iwa-chan?" Oikawa mumbles into the fabric of the cushions. Blindly, he reaches up until his hands close against Iwaizumi's textbook, tugging to pull it from his hands.

Recognizing the very real possibility that their combined grip strength could very well tear the hardcover book in two, Iwaizumi releases it, turning both hands to push against Oikawa's shoulders.

"I've got exams, you moron! Some of us don't get an exception for being on the damn national team."

Jostled enough, Oikawa lets Iwaizumi push him onto his side, shifting just far enough against the back of the couch to free the crumpled notebooks beneath him. He fixes Iwaizumi with a pointed and exhausted pout. "Iwa-chan, your cruelty knows no bounds."

"I don't go rubbing myself all over your damn gear when you're leaving for practice," Iwaizumi retorts.

"Maybe not," Oikawa concedes, "But I've seen you taking my jersey out of the laundry."

The remark is so casual, such an aside, that Iwaizumi knows it's just Oikawa trying to get under his skin. The problem is, he succeeds. Electricity sparks up the skin of Iwaizumi's arms, jolting him into stillness a moment before he turns away, scrabbling to pull his notes together into some semblance of order.

"I have to wash the damn thing sometime," he huffs out, cheeks burning.

"That's not why you're doing it, is it Iwa-chan?" He feels the shift of Oikawa on the sofa next to him a moment before the solid pressure of Oikawa's chest settles against his back, Oikawa's fingertips finding their way against the muscles of his arms until they circle his wrists, pulling the notes from his grasp with deliberate stillness.

The hairs at the back of Iwaizumi's neck stand on end. The next time he hears Oikawa's voice, it's a whisper in his ear, breath hot against the already burning skin.

"Iwa-chan, are you feeling neglected?"

Iwaizumi turns, twisting his body in Oikawa's hold and crushes their lips together in answer. It's obvious enough that it's what Oikawa wants right now. He pulls his hands from Oikawa's grasp because Oikawa lets him. He drags Oikawa up off the couch by his hipbones, their bodies lihe against each other for one heated moment before it's Iwaizumi's hands that close over Oikawa's wrists, all but dragging him to the bedroom.

It's easy enough to feel the languor in Oikawa's movements, to feel the tension and strain in his muscles as he squirms against Iwaizumi's touch. It doesn't matter that much to Iwaizumi. He takes the lead more often than not, and there's still something so exhilarating every time his name pulls from Oikawa's lips mingled with a pleading moan. There's something indescribable as he pushes into the tight heat of Oikawa's body.

When he feels Oikawa's legs shudder and strain over his hipbones he knows that it's those legs that power a jump serve that launched him onto the national stage. Every callous his fingers drag against as he threads his hands with Oikawa's reminds him of Oikawa's place in the world, and yet the pleading cries that he draws from Oikawa's lips with every thrust of his hips remind him that every bit of sinew, power, and grace that is Oikawa Tooru belongs to him.

Lying together, sticky with heat and sweat, Iwaizumi's almost nodded off to sleep when Oikawa speaks again.

"...your birthday, isn't it?" is all he hears through the groggy fog of sleep.

"Nngh?" he grunts in reply.

"Don't fall asleep when I'm talking to you," Oikawa chides him, lazy and without vitriol. He must be exhausted as well. "I said, 'Next week is your birthday, isn't it?'"

"Nnh," Iwaizumi sighs in reply. The rise and fall of his breath lifts Oikawa's head where he rests against Iwaizumi's chest. "Yeah," Iwaizumi breathes out on his exhale. "Why?"

"What do you mean, why?" Oikawa says, tapping his fingertips against Iwaizumi's chest. "Aren't you going to do something?"

"Didn't really think of it," Iwaizumi says, half-muttered through half-open lips.

"You're no fun."

"Not everyone has birthday parties are ridiculously overblown as that idiot Oikawa Tooru," Iwaizumi says, fingertips lazily tracing the rise and fall of Oikawa's spine. "How many people'd you even invite last year?"

"Twenty, maybe thirty?" Oikawa says in a voice that says he's clearly forgotten. "Ah, but we had more than that in the end, anyway. You should have been there."

Something twists, just a little, inside of Iwaizumi. His hand stills at Oikawa's back, eyes half-open as they turn to look at the ceiling.

"Yeah."

Oikawa senses the moment easily enough. Fingers find Iwaizumi's free hand, twisting together and holding him there. "Well, there's always this year."

"You're planning it already?" Iwaizumi replies in a huff.

"Of course," Oikawa hums. "It takes time, you know."

"Weren't we talking about mine?"

"You don't have any plans, Iwa-chan. You're boring."

"Asshole," Iwaizumi exhales.

"Mhm," Oikawa sleepily concedes.

There's a pause, broken only by the sound of their slow, steady breaths, ever so slightly out of time with one another, before Iwaizumi replies.

"Don't want anything this year," he says, fighting against the thick haze of sleep. "S'long as you're around for it."

"Mhm, got it," Oikawa says before sleep takes them both.

\---

It turns out, unfortunately, that being a professional international athlete falling asleep post-coitus doesn't grant one the most complete access to their memory. June 10th falls solidly on the date of Oikawa's departure for a friendly against France in preparation for his World League matches later in the month.

Part of Iwaizumi wants to be angry about it. He tries to muster up enough rage to glare across the table at Oikawa where they're sitting in Narita, just hours away from Oikawa's departure. It's at least somewhat effective, as Oikawa's head is bowed in a cowed gesture of defeat.

"I'm sorry, Iwa-chan," he mumbles. Iwaizumi's eyebrow twitches.

He sounds pathetic like this. He looks pathetic like this.

"Stop it with the kicked dog look," Iwaizumi grumbles, turning to his food instead. "People are going to start staring."

"But I really am sorry," Oikawa protests, thankfully quiet, as he fixes Iwaizumi with an intent gaze. "I thought the flight was the 11th, not the 10th, so..."

"Whatever," Iwaizumi huffs, talking around the weight settling into his chest. "You've got a flight to catch, don't you? Hurry up and eat."

Oikawa pouts, but he does at least start to eat, sad clumps of rice passing through sullen lips to be morosely chewed. Iwaizumi knows the display doesn't look nearly so ridiculous to anyone simply passing by, but it's still taking an incredible amount of willpower to keep himself from just smacking Oikawa upside the head and being done with it.

When he's in his flirtatious moods Oikawa is a pest. But it's when he's really upset over something, when he feels that there's a legitimate cause for something to hang over his head that Iwaizumi can't stand it.

Slowly, he lets his breath out, blowing over his noodles far longer than strictly necessarily. Oikawa's eyes flick up to him. Nothing escapes his notice, not when he's like this. Iwaizumi pauses a moment, lips pursed, before he lifts his gaze to look back.

"I'm not mad at you," he says, quiet and even. "I'm going to watch you play, so you'd better win."

"You're upset over it, aren't you Iwa-chan?" Oikawa says. His voice is calmer, quieter this time, the earlier dramatics completely gone.

Iwaizumi narrows his gaze, his lips a tight line against his face.

"Yeah," he says after a beat. The skin against his cheeks tingles with heat and he resolutely ignores it. He exhales, putting his chopsticks down and trying to look nonchalant as he casts his gaze out over the busy terminal around them.

"I was looking forward to it, this year."

"To having me all to yourself?" Oikawa purrs, low enough that only Iwaizumi will notice.

Iwaizumi's eyebrow twitches, the muscle of his jaw clenching tighter. "Don't make it sound like some perverted thing," he hisses out of the corner of his lips.

"It's not perverted, Iwa-chan," Oikawa says. There's a weight to the words that draws Iwaizumi's gaze back in, something like gravity. When he looks Oikawa's put his chopsticks down as well, the full intensity of his gaze fixed on Iwaizumi, his eyes flicking to capture every motion, every breath, every detail of the man sitting in front of him.

The hairs at the back of Iwaizumi's neck stand on end. He feels his palms heating against the table, suddenly hyper aware of the pressure in his fingertips against the cheap plastic surface. Oikawa's eyes can be devouring. With just a glance, he can take in everything that there is to a person, completely undo them, and absolutely consume them. On the court, it always made Iwaizumi's adrenaline race to see it first hand. In the bedroom, he knows it as one of many parts of Oikawa that's completely irresistible.

Iwaizumi swallows, finding his voice lodged at the back of his throat.

"You're going to win," he says, his voice set with an edge that does nothing to hide his arousal from someone like Oikawa. "You're going to win and I'm going to be here when you get back. And I'm not fucking letting you leave the apartment until you've got practice again."

Oikawa's eyes flash bright. Iwaizumi feels like he's been played. Like every moment before has just been a careful calculation by Oikawa to lead up to this one. But it doesn't really matter to him that much. If that admission is all that Oikawa wanted from him, it's something he's given willingly.

"Is that a promise, Iwa-chan?" Oikawa asks, lighthearted against the sharp edges of the smile on his face.

Iwaizumi smirks in reply, with just as much force behind it.

"It's a promise."

\---

The game starts at midnight a few days later, but Iwaizumi is awake for it. He'd felt the weight of sleep dragging against his eyelids while the pre-game commentators droned on about the history of the stadium and the surrounding neighborhood in France and crap like that. Yet the second that the teams enter the court, his attention jolts to life, eyes fixed on the screen, leaning forward in a futile attempt to get a better look at the team. Oikawa is there, with an easy smile and a wink for the camera when it passes over him.

Iwaizumi snorts softly under his breath, not bothering to hide the smile curving against his lips.

"You damn show off," he whispers into the silent apartment.

Oikawa doesn't hear him, but the camera's moved on anyway. Oikawa isn't captain, not at this level, so he isn't there for the toss. But when the match starts Iwaizumi can see him stepping out onto the court, the red of his jersey vibrant against his skin, painting his hair in burnished auburn tones. Iwaizumi swallows, leaning in just a little closer, and watches the first serve arc over the net with rapt attention.

He doesn't pay attention to how much time passes. It's a wonder that he even manages to keep his voice down, hissing expletives and would-be shouts between teeth and tight lips as his knuckles go white where they grip on the edge of the sofa. It's a close game. France won the World League last year and they're still on top of their game, but the team that surrounds Oikawa, this new team that he trusts and believes in isn't about to give in without a fight.

It doesn't matter to Iwaizumi that he's not the one dashing to the line to receive Oikawa's tosses. He can still feel his heart racing against his chest, can still feel the phantom pain of the tingling sting of the ball against his palm. His breaths come faster, racing with the tension and pace of the match. He thinks that he can taste sweat against his lips when he licks them, teeth driving in against them when it's match point and it's Oikawa standing at the line, Oikawa twirling the ball in his hands the same way they did when they were kids.

Even with the distance between them, the miles across the world and the imperfect angles of the camera catching Oikawa's face, Iwaizumi knows the intensity and passion that must be in his eyes now.

"Do it," he breathes at the same moment when Oikawa springs into motion, tossing the ball as he leaps into the powerful grace of his jump serve.

The ball smacks against the court across the net, diving away faster than anyone can catch it, and Iwaizumi swears he can hear the echo of it against the walls of the apartment as well.

He's off the couch in an instant, fists clenched tight enough to hurt, but it doesn't matter.

A shouts tears from his throat, victory and adrenaline, and it isn't until the resounding thud of the neighbors pounding against the apartment wall sounds in his ears that he remembers his place.

Chagrined, Iwaizumi ducks his head even though they can't see it.

"Sorry," he shouts back, settling against the couch to watch as Oikawa and his teammates share in enough elated victory for all of them.

Iwaizumi's at the airport two days later, standing in the midst of a small crush of fans trying to look nonchalant about it. There's sports enthusiasts, of course, and the normal sort of run of the mill families and drivers that one would expect outside the arrival gate. But what catches Iwaizumi's eye, what sets his shoulders straight and brings a wry scowl to his face are the fans that are obviously here for Oikawa. There's a few more of them than he had in high school, and certainly there's more of a range to them here. Older women and younger ones as well. Some of them holding up signs covered in glitter that were clearly handmade in a rush over the last few days.

Iwaizumi knows why, of course. It's not just because of Oikawa. It's not just because his service ace was the point that won the match, that caused an international stir as Japan upset the standing world champions. It didn't make much of a difference, in the end, it was just a friendly. But it had gotten people talking. There had already been coverage all over the news, press conferences with Oikawa in his natural element: sitting at the center of attention.

It was all exactly what he'd expected. He'd known this was coming. But the sight of it still sets him on edge. Oikawa has more attention, more eyes on him, and it's just a matter of time before those eyes catch onto Iwaizumi as well.

He realizes that he isn't exactly helping matters either, standing here at Narita's international arrival gate, waiting for Oikawa and the rest of the team to come through the customs gates along with the scattered groups of fans and onlookers. But there's still something of that edge from Oikawa's victory left in him. He's felt restless ever since the end of the game.

It's almost like a wire threaded under his skin pulled so tight that it threatens to break at a moment's notice. Or the crackle of static over the hairs at the back of his neck needing just the right touch to set them off into a shock.

He tries to soothe the feeling. Tries running his hand across the back of his neck, crossing his arms over his chest, but it won't settle. It's not until Oikawa steps through the gates, a brilliant smile spread over his lips as he waves to the waiting crowd that it snaps.

Every inch of Iwaizumi's body is on fire. It's a desperate struggle just to keep his feet rooted to the floor, to keep from flinging himself headlong into the crowd, catching Oikawa in his arms and crushing their lips together. He wins out, just barely, but when Oikawa's eyes meet his over the heads of his adoring fans Iwaizumi knows that the need is written over his face as clear as day. It actually startles Oikawa, at least enough to snap some sense back into Iwaizumi's mind. The two of them stand there, dumbfounded and staring at one another until some player, that loudmouthed wing spiker who went to Fukurodani, slaps Oikawa on the back and startles him out of it.

Iwaizumi jerks his gaze away a moment later, scrubbing a hand through his hair, fingertips dragging against scalp as he makes his way away from the din of the crowd. He hadn't even told Oikawa that he'd be there, so of course he was surprised. What's more, Oikawa's with the team now so of course they've got their own transportation figured out. Despite the hours of transit and waiting for the first time it dawns on Iwaizumi that he has absolutely no idea what the hell he was thinking.

Fortunately, the men's bathroom isn't far away and serves as a perfect place for a momentary reprieve. The tiled room is blissfully empty when Iwaizumi steps in. He pays no mind to the rest of his surroundings in favor of making a beeline straight to the sink and cranking the cold water on. A few moments later he's doused his face and hair, letting the shock of the chill bring his thoughts into sharper contrast.

He was needy, he thinks, and probably a little bit jealous. It's been over a year since he's played with Oikawa himself and the two of them haven't spent more than a few days apart since their relationship began. Those two combined with Oikawa's missed promise are what's left Iwaizumi a mess, he tells himself. He'll be fine once they're back in the privacy of their apartment. He'll be all right once he can have his hands on Oikawa in a place where no one else can see them, where no one else has to know.

He's distracted enough that he doesn't notice the steps entering the bathroom behind him until there's a familiar hum echoing off the mirrors and tile walls. His eyes snap open and he can see Oikawa standing there behind him in the mirror.

Oikawa's reflection smiles at him and he stares back, dumbfounded. That only serves to draw the edges of Oikawa's lips into a sharper, more predatory grin.

"I knew that you'd miss me Iwa-chan, but I didn't think you'd go this far with it," Oikawa says, casually stepping up to the sink next to Iwaizumi's.

Iwaizumi runs a hand through his wet hair, sending a fine spray of water flicking over the sink and mirror. "I didn't have anything better to do today," he lies on a rough exhale. "I didn't like the thought of you coming back to a crowd of girls like that either." His head jerks slightly towards the door in emphasis.

"Iwa-chan, that's mean." He can hear the pout curling over Oikawa's lips even though he hasn't turned to see it yet. "You can't keep me from my adoring fans."

"Who's keeping you from anything?" he says, finally looking up to Oikawa with a scowl. "You're the one who came in here on your own, idiot."

"Well, that's true." Oikawa shrugs, his half-hearted protest forgotten. "Maybe you're not the only one who missed someone, Iwa-chan."

Iwaizumi can't help but roll his eyes at Oikawa's half-assed attempt to deflect, to turn the situation around without saying what it is that he wants. Oikawa's still smiling though. The bathroom is still empty, and for just a moment his skin itches with the thought that maybe he might be able to get away with something stupid.

He can see it reflected in Oikawa's eyes as well. In the way that they narrow, in the way that Oikawa leans just a half-step closer, one hand reaching out to catch on Iwaizumi's shirt.

The footsteps behind them are loud enough to be a thundercrack in Iwaizumi's ears. His whole body jerks, turning to stare at the incoming businessman with a shocked expression that surely would have looked scandalized if the other man hadn't been completely distracted by some conversation on his cell phone that he's quickly trying to end. Even after the man clicks the phone closed and turns to face the urinal, clearly utterly unaware of what he's just interrupted, Iwaizumi can feel his heart pounding against his chest from the adrenaline.

Beside him, Oikawa makes an absolutely undignified sound halfway between a laugh and a snort. Iwaizumi's back to scowling at him a split second later, the fire in his eyes making it abundantly clear just what he thinks about the kind of mess they could have wound up in if anyone had caught them.

Oikawa offers him an apologetic smile, the sort that shows he'll only bother feeling sorry until he can have his way.

"Hey, Iwa-chan, why don't we go out tonight?" he says and it takes Iwaizumi a moment to process the invitation.

Even though they've been dating for the better part of a year, they've never gone on what Iwaizumi would consider a "date," not in the same way that he and his earlier girlfriend would go out. Not in the same way that all of their friends do.

In the grand scheme of things, it's not as risky a move as making out in the airport bathroom, but the thought of it thrills Iwaizumi even more than the promise of stolen kisses and the feel of Oikawa's skin under his hands.

"Yeah, okay," he hears himself saying before he's really had a chance to put a thought to it. "I'll meet you at Tokyo station."

"All right," Oikawa says, his smile predatory yet content. "It's a date."

\---

Almost two hours later, Iwaizumi finds himself standing outside the central exit to the Tokyo station feeling like an absolute idiot. Even though no one in the crowds moving about him seems to notice he's pretty sure that he looks like one too. When he'd stepped out of the apartment hours earlier he hadn't given any kind of thought to what he was wearing. Just a beat up pair of blue jeans and tank top with an old t-shirt with some English slogan plastered over it. He doesn't even know what's about to happen, doesn't know where he's about to go, but still, somehow, he feels completely underdressed for the occasion.

Oikawa hadn't been wearing much, he reminds himself. But then again, Oikawa had said he was going to stop by the apartment to drop his bags off so they didn't have to drag them halfway around the city. Hours too late, Iwaizumi realizes he could have done the same. Could have stopped back at the apartment with Oikawa to find out what the hell his plans were, to clean up, to dress at least somewhat appropriately.

The muggy heat of Tokyo's summer is sticky against his skin, sweat beading over his upper lip as he wipes it away for the fifth time in as many minutes. But if he'd gone back to the apartment, he thinks, it wouldn't have felt quite like a date, would it? It wouldn't be the same if they'd both started at the same place, ended at the same place, but at the same time that's the sort of relationship that they have right now.

Iwaizumi lets out a rough breath, squirming where he's positioned himself up against the wall by the station exit. Reaching down to his pocket, he pulls out his phone and flicks it open to pull open his LINE app. "Central Exit, 7:30!" blinks back at him with an obnoxiously cutesy sticker under the phone display that reads 7:42.

Iwaizumi's lips twist into a scowl. "Where the hell are you, asshole?" he taps out, hitting send.

Two seconds later, the all too familiar chime of a ringtone grabs his attention, his head whipping around just in time to hear the snap of Oikawa's cell phone camera.

"Ah, Iwa-chan, you ruined my shot!" Oikawa says, lowering the phone in favor of a put upon pout across his face.

"I don't give a damn about your shot!" Iwaizumi grits out. "How long have you been standing there, you jerk?"

Oikawa lets out a thoughtful hum, before giving a light shrug not more than a moment later. "Two, three minutes maybe. I got distracted trying to capture the beauty of Iwa-chan's grumpy face."

Iwaizumi can feel his cheeks burn as his temper flares. "Don't keep me waiting just because you're taking pictures!"

"Oh, that's a good look too," Oikawa says with a grin.

Iwaizumi's fingers start to curl into a fist at his side, but not before Oikawa steps in, lacing his own between them with an insistent tug. He's suddenly no more than a breath away, his hip bumping against Iwaizumi's side, his body crowding him up against the station wall.

"Are you ready for our date?" he asks.

Breath caught in his throat, Iwaizumi swallows. His tongue flashes against his lips, Oikawa's eyes tracking the gesture, and he tastes salt. Jerking his head to the side he lets out a low breath, tension slipping from his shoulders as his hand slots in comfortably against Oikawa's.

"Just tell me where we're going already."

The heat of Oikawa's body against his vanishes as quickly as it came, Oikawa stepping away with his fingers still locked against Iwaizumi's.

"All right, all right. Let's get going."

\---

They wind up at a restaurant that's only about a ten minute walk away from the station, a tucked away hole in the wall izayaka with dark, private booths lining the walls. Oikawa holds his hand up until they reach the entrance and the sensation of it thrills in Iwaizumi even after Oikawa's touch leaves him. There's no one who seems to recognize him, no one who calls out and stops them on their way, but the streets of Tokyo are busy as they always are. The possibility that anyone could see, that anyone could know prickles against Iwaizumi's skin the whole way there.

Oikawa smiles and plays nice with the hostess, who holds her professionalism with an easy smile and even Iwaizumi has to grudgingly admire. Yet as soon as they're seated, tucked away from the sight of anyone except the restaurant staff, Oikawa's attention is all for Iwaizumi again, his eyes still bright in the dim light of the restaurant, hands laced together under his chin as he regards Iwaizumi with the sort of smile that Iwaizumi knows is predatory.

Iwaizumi doesn't cower under it, even as it feeds the gnawing want in his belly that reminds him that even though Oikawa's here, even though Oikawa's not more than a meter away from him, he can't touch, yet. He can't taste Oikawa's sweat and dig bruises into his skin with his fingers, his lips, and teeth. Not yet, at least.

Oikawa sees it, because nothing escapes his gaze, and he smiles, his posture relaxing as he leans back against the booth.

"This is the place I wanted to bring you to for your birthday, you know," he says, nonchalant as his attention turns to the menu on the table.

"Does that mean you're making up for it now?" Iwaizumi asks, one eyebrow cocked up before he follows suit.

"Maybe a little bit," Oikawa admits. "I have to make up for it somehow, you know. Just a win isn't enough."

"It was a good win," Iwaizumi says, knowing that even as nonchalant as he might sound, the words will go straight no Oikawa's head no matter what.

"I knew you'd be watching," Oikawa says with a smile. "You saw the last serve didn't you?"

Iwaizumi resists the urge to roll his eyes. "I saw the whole damn game, shittykawa."

"I know, I know," Oikawa laughs, light and easy. "But that last one, you know. When I went for it I was thinking of you."

Iwaizumi cocks one eyebrow up, favoring Oikawa with an incredulous glance. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

Oikawa smirks back at him, the corners of his lips sharp. "It means I thought, 'Ah, I bet Iwa-chan is watching me now,' and then 'I wonder if I can hit this one against the court as hard as he'll take me against the wall once I'm home.'"

The flush overtakes Iwaizumi's face before he has a chance to react otherwise. His nostrils flare wide, lips parted with a hissing inhale of breath. "What the hell--" he spits before Oikawa turns away, waving his hand and smiling his goddamn people pleasing smile at the waitress.

"Excuse me!" Oikawa chimes. "We're ready to order."

Iwaizumi scrambles, dragging his eyes back to the menu in the vain hopes that he'll find his composure scattered somewhere in the writing on the page. They order food in a flustered hurry, but it still feels like an eternity to Iwaizumi before the waitress leaves and he can fix Oikawa with a proper glare.

"Ass," he spits out, one he knows the waitress is out of earshot.

"I remember a promise someone made," Oikawa says, completely unphased. "That I wouldn't leave the apartment until I had to practice."

The tips of Iwaizumi's ears prickle with heat, his gaze fixed on Oikawa. "I haven't broken that promise yet."

"No, you haven't," Oikawa nods. His eyes narrow, hooded and dark. "I'm looking forward to it, Iwa-chan."

"You'd better be," Iwaizumi huffs in reply.

\---

It's three days before the news breaks. Iwaizumi's held to his word, and Oikawa has a break in practices after the match, so it's the buzzing of Oikawa's phone that starts it off. They're lying together on the couch, Oikawa sprawled across Iwaizumi's chest, his face tucked against Iwaizumi's neck despite the summer heat when his phone rings. For a moment he doesn't notice. For a moment Iwaizumi's willing to pretend that it might just be the cicadas buzzing or something else. But as the sound continues, insistent, he sighs and reaches for the side table where Oikawa's phone is resting, picking it up and all but shoving it into the other man's face.

"Hurry up and answer it," he says.

Oikawa turns just enough to give him a dubious look with one lazy eye.

Iwaizumi meets him with a sharp-edged glare. "Do it already."

"Mmph," Oikawa grunts, pushing himself off of Iwaizumi with an excessive show of effort, plucking the phone from his hands to swipe his fingertips deftly across the screen.

"Hello~?" he sing-songs into the receiver.

Iwaizumi squirms out from under him, using Oikawa's call as an excuse to get something to drink from the kitchen. He's in the middle of deciding between Pocari Sweat and barley tea when he hears Oikawa's tone cut an abrupt turn into something more serious.

"I'm sorry, but what did you say?" is all that Iwaizumi hears.

Iwaizumi's head jerks up, his gaze drawn back to the living room as the drinks in the fridge are all but forgotten. Swinging the door shut behind him, he steps out just far enough so he can see what sort of expression Oikawa's making.

The tension in the line of Oikawa's shoulders answers his question before Iwaizumi even has a chance to see his face. It isn't good news. Oikawa's fumbling around, looking for something, until his fingers close on the remote and he turns to flip the TV on. He turns to Iwaizumi as he does, mouth set in a firm line with his eyes narrowed in intensity.

"I'm turning it on right now," Oikawa says into the phone. His gaze flicks up to Iwaizumi, impassive, before it falls back on the screen.

Iwaizumi takes a step forward, wanting to know what's happened, wanting to know if something's gone wrong, when the TV's sound springs to life, filling the apartment.

"--The photos come from an anonymous source that claims to have witnessed the pair after Oikawa's return from France. The pictures undoubtedly seem to show the setter of the National Team in the company of a male companion."

The way that Iwaizumi's breath catches in his throat feels like he's suffocating. His entire focus narrows in that instant, feet carrying him across the apartment unconsciously as he whips around to stare at the screen. It's nothing more than a pictures, probably some kind of amateur, but there's no questioning what's happening.

The show is some dumb entertainment news hour. It's in the middle of the day and probably only housewives are watching so it's doubtful to say whether or not the sports networks or other news channels will pick up canned gossip like this but that doesn't do anything to slow Iwaizumi's pulse. It doesn't do anything to dislodge the thick weight at the back of his throat as he turns to look to Oikawa.

Oikawa isn't looking at him anymore. His eyes are fixed to the screen, cold and calculating. He's looking for the weakness here, Iwaizumi knows it. He's looking for the one point where he can hit against this stupid story and make the whole damn thing fall to pieces. The phone is still pressed against his ear, an unintelligible voice coming from the other line. Whatever it's saying, it gives Oikawa pause. One eyebrow arches, a disdainful look crossing his otherwise placid features.

"Of course I was there, how else do you think they got the pictures?" he says. He turns from the TV set, his face in profile to Iwaizumi as he continues talking. "You know they can't just make that sort of thing up."

Iwaizumi frowns. He can imagine what's being said, but Oikawa's response still doesn't sit right with him.

Oikawa laughs abruptly, the sound of it is a weapon meant to cut down whoever it is on the other end of the line. Iwaizumi doesn't even have time to imagine what sort of question they must have asked before Oikawa's reply comes.

"Well, that's easy enough," Oikawa says. "He's my boyfriend."

Iwaizumi is pretty sure that his heart stops at that very moment.

His eyes flare wide, jaw clenching as he stares at Oikawa with a roiling expression caught somewhere between shock and incoherent range.

Oikawa turns to look at him just in time to catch it, winking at Iwaizumi with a self-confident smirk that Iwaizumi wants to punch right off of his face.

"That's right, that's right," Oikawa keeps going. "You heard me right, he's my boyfriend. Ah, which means we're dating, okay? It's really rude of them, but that picture they caught was the two of us on a date together, you know."

Iwaizumi is going to kill him, he thinks. With every unspoken fear he'd held in his heart bursting at the seams right now the only thought that finds clarity in the tumult of emotions in his mind is a disbelieving sort of unbridled fury. What the hell is he even thinking?

Oikawa isn't oblivious, he can't be oblivious with the way that his eyes are watching Iwaizumi now, tracking the twitch of his eyebrows, the coiled tension in his hands as they ball into fists at his sides. But none of it stops him, if anything it just seems to add fuel to his fire.

"Mhm," Oikawa intones to something said on the other line. "Well, if that's what you want to do, it's fine with me. All right. Okay. I'll talk to you later~"

With a click the conversation is over. Oikawa's barely even pulled the phone away from his ear before Iwaizumi launches at him.

"What the fuck was that?!" he seethes, hands twisted in Oikawa's shirt, hauling him forward.

"Iwa-chan--it's all right!" Oikawa chides him, bracing his hands on Iwaizumi's wrists.

"Like hell it is!"

Oikawa laughs, not out of anger, but in a fond and adoring way that just makes Iwaizumi want to hit him even more. He doesn't, settling for another rough shake of Oikawa's shirt as his teeth grind together.

"Iwa-chan, it's fine," Oikawa repeats, a little more insistent this time. "It's just my agent, it's all right."

"How the hell is it all right if your agent knows--?" Iwaizumi spits. He feels raw at the edges. It isn't that he enjoyed staying closeted, that he liked the idea of hiding what he and Oikawa have, but by the same token it's no one's damn business but their own. No one needs to know, no one should know but them.

"Iwa-chan," Oikawa says. There's something else to his voice now, steel beneath the softness. Iwaizumi stills, waiting for more. Oikawa's smiling at him. There's no danger in it this time, it's something softer, something closer to the sort of smile that Oikawa gives him when it's just the two of them tangled together in the sheets of their bed. Oikawa's fingers stroke slowly along Iwaizumi's wrists in a soothing gesture. "I know I didn't ask you first and I'm sorry for that," he says, dropping his gaze down to Iwaizumi's hands on his shirt for a moment. "But if you're going to hit back against something like that, it's better to know what's real and what isn't, don't you think?"

The apology mollifies Iwaizumi somewhat. He loosens his grip on Oikawa's shirt, letting some of the tension slip from his shoulders. "So you're going to do something about it?" he asks, lips still twisted in a tight grimace, his nerves still on edge.

"I'll take care of it," Oikawa says. He pauses a moment, studying Iwaizumi's expression. "Does it matter to you that much if people know, Iwa-chan?"

Iwaizumi lets out a rough breath. His hands loose their hold on Oikawa entirely, falling down to be caught in the weight of his palms.

"I don't care what the hell people know," he says, turning to glare at the TV out of the corner of his eye. "It's when they make a whole damn fuss about it that it pisses me off. If they're going to watch you, they should watch you on the court. Making a show out of anything else is none of their damn business."

"Are you worried about my career?" Oikawa asks, cutting to the heart of it with one simple question.

Iwaizumi turns back, fixing him with a sharp look. "Of course I am. You're there to win. Whatever you do with me shouldn't hold you back from that."

"It won't, it won't," Oikawa says. His fingers slide down over Iwaizumi's palms, uncurling his hand until they slot together between his, both of their hands held together. "Whatever happens, I won't let it keep me off the court, all right?"

Iwaizumi sighs, exhaling against the worry and doubt that's still tight in his belly. He believes Oikawa. He trusts him. For as much as the whole damn incident lit a spark in him, he knows Oikawa isn't against him in this. Yet as much as he might believe in him, he knows even someone like Oikawa won't be able to control the way the world around them reacts.

Still, he feels his hands squeezing tight against Oikawa's. His eyes find Oikawa's, echoing the steady determination that he finds there.

"All right," he says like it's a promise. 

In the end, they'll just have to wait and see.

\---

There are many problems with Oikawa Tooru. As someone who's known him his entire life, Iwaizumi knows plenty of them. He can be a showoff, insecure. He pushes himself past his limits and even though he trusts those around him with utter sincerity, the maelstrom of all his flaws combined sometimes ends in situations like this one.

After the incident with their date, Oikawa's agent and the national team feels that it's best to call a small press conference. They're quickly coming up on the date of Oikawa's departure for the games in Brazil, and it's better to deal with this sort of thing on home soil, they think. Better to put it away and have it over and done with so the focus can return to what really matters.

The conference happens a few days later. Iwaizumi's at home slowly picking away at a paper for class, tuned into the right channel as he waits for the conference to begin. His eyes only barely flick to the screen when Oikawa and a few other members of the team file in behind the tables they've set up for the event. Ostensibly, this is about their victory in France. On paper, it's about their ambitions for the games in Brazil. They have to keep up appearances, even if they know they're not really fooling anyone.

Accordingly, things go smoothly at first. Most of the initial questions are fielded by the team's coach and captain, a seasoned older player pushing his thirties. He went to school in Osaka somewhere, Iwaizumi remembers. The Kansai dialect still sneaks through every now and then, even when he's trying to stand on formality. At first, there's only a few questions tossed Oikawa's way. Questions about how it felt to score the winning point against France, about how it feels being one of the younger members on the team, facing his first tournament on the international stage.

The whole thing drags on long enough that Iwaizumi's practically tuned it out by the time someone has the audacity to summon up the elephant in the room. Iwaizumi misses the name of the paper the woman who's speaking up works for, but he catches on by the time that she's asked her question.

"Regarding the reports made the other day about an incident where Oikawa-san was spotted spending time in the company of another man," she says, her words pointed and precise, "can you confirm for us whether the rumors about your romantic involvement with that man are true?"

The camera turns to focus on Oikawa's face. He's been all smiles and genial energy for the entirety of the conference up until that point. His expression doesn't falter under the momentary scrutiny. Shoulders squared, his smile curves a fraction wider over his face as he leans forward, lips barely brushing the edge of the microphone.

"By 'an incident,' do you mean when someone snuck after me and sent pictures of my date into the news?" he says, as calm and collected as if he was just chatting about the weather or the sort of routine he follows to keep in shape for the game.

It takes a beat before the room seems to realize what he's said. Iwaizumi doesn't need even half as much time.

"You asshole--" he sputters. His notes slip from his hands, body twisting as he shifts his grip to the edge of the low table in their living room, holding on until he can feel the edge of it dig into his palms.

Oikawa isn't done yet, though. He waves a hand as if to silence the room or bat the question away as if it were a pesky fly.

"Because, you know, if you ask me it really was rude of them to do that," he says, matter of fact. "But I can't really see what that has to do with my performance on the team. Can you clarify that point for me?"

The camera switches to the reporter fast enough to catch the look of wide-eyed shock on her face before she schools her expression into something more professional. Lips pursed and determined, she presses on. "This is about your relationship with another man, Oikawa-san, the public would like to know--"

"I don't want to tell them," Oikawa says with a slight shrug of his shoulders. "Either way it has nothing to do with volleyball, does it?"

"It--doesn't, not directly, but your fans want to--"

"If it's indirect then why haven't you asked the rest of the team about their relationships?" Even through the cameras Iwaizumi can see the way that Oikawa's gaze has turned predatory. His words cut with forced politeness, each one of them biting sharper than the last. "But if you ask me, I don't think it really matters. Did you have any other questions?"

There's a fire in the reporter's eyes as well. She refuses to back down without a fight. "You haven't denied your relationship with this other man, Oikawa-san--"

"I don't intend to," Oikawa quips. Iwaizumi's pulse pounds against his ears. He feels his throat stick to the back of his throat, his mouth dry.

"But," Oikawa continues with saccharine kindness, "if you don't have any more questions about the team or the sport, I think we've heard enough from you."

A murmur spreads across the crowd before silence takes hold. The reporter flushes, lips pursed tight, before she lets a "No, that will be all," slip from her lips and returns to her seat.

Iwaizumi doesn't pay any attention to the rest of the conference. The moment the line of questioning ends, his hands fly to his phone, grabbing it from where it sits on the table and pulls up his conversation with Oikawa on instinct.

"What the hell was that?!" he texts, and then, "What were you thinking?!"

He doesn't expect Oikawa to respond, not until the conference is over, at least, but that doesn't stop him from texting.

"You asshole you never said you were going to pull anything like that."

"I know it's none of their damn business but you at least could have told me you were going to pull something like that!"

He sets about distracting himself with household chores and homework. The two manage to somewhat abate his rage, at least enough so that he doesn't immediately fling his phone across the room when it chimes with Oikawa's reply.

He almost doesn't look. Almost wants to wait until Oikawa's home so he can hear it from his face, so he can have the chance to physically smack some sense into him, not that it'll do much good in the end. However, his curiosity gets the better of him, fingers flicking across his phone's screen to bring up Oikawa's message.

"I'm sorry," is the first thing it says.

Iwaizumi huffs, muttering "You'd better be," into the empty air before reading on.

"It wasn't the response that we'd gone over. To be honest, I don't think I was really thinking straight when I was there. It was an impulse. I was angry. I just wanted to put anyone who thought that they could ask those kind of questions in their place. I wanted to let them know that they could pry but they'd never take what I have away from me. I should have let you know. I know I broke your trust again and I can't take that back. I'm sorry, Iwa-chan."

Iwaizumi's eyes race over the message twice before he releases the breath he didn't know he was holding in. It tears slowly from his throat like paper pulling from a book, like a seam popping open under the pull of his hands.

He can imagine how Oikawa must look right now. Sitting on the train or in a cab with his head bowed, forehead pressed to his phone as he waits for a reply. He's going to pile this all on his back. He'll blame himself, and Iwaizumi doesn't necessarily think it's wrong of him to do so. Oikawa's always pushed himself to his limits. He isn't afraid of anything that can take him forward, and Iwaizumi's known for a while now that it means Iwaizumi won't always be able to follow.

In that moment on the stage, faced with cameras and the eyes of all his fans fixed on him, Oikawa saw a weakness. He saw a chance to turn the flow of it, to put the matter on his terms, to bring it to a place where he could win. There was no straightforward admission for them to use, no sound bytes or clever little quips that could spread the word without exposing the edge of the attack that Oikawa had leveled against them. If it wasn't about the sport, it didn't matter. He'd show them all what he was capable of when the time came in Brazil.

Iwaizumi's angry. He's still pissed, but Oikawa knows that well enough now. Oikawa knows it and Oikawa's recognized where he's fucked up, which takes some of the edge off of it. He's not going to beat the point into Oikawa when he knows the other man's recognized it already.

Staring down at the screen of his phone, he lets out a rough breath.

"I get it. Just hurry up and get home," he texts back.

"I'm on my way," Oikawa texts, a little more slowly than usual. "Did you want me to pick something up from the store?"

Iwaizumi ponders over the message for a moment before texting in reply.

"Don't worry about it, I'm making us dinner."

Iwaizumi isn't the best cook by any stretch of the imagination, but he's learned at least a few things in the past few years living on his own. It's the gesture of it that matters, and he knows it. Oikawa's a complete sucker for sappy shit like home cooked meals, flowers, the works.

Sure enough, not even five seconds later his phone chimes with a new message.

"I'm grateful I can still taste Iwaizumi's delicious home cooking!" it reads, surrounded in stupid sparkling hearts and smiling emoji.

Iwaizumi's lip curls in a grimace as he tosses his phone back on the table. Pulling open the fridge, he sets about making dinner.

\---

Oikawa shows up when Iwaizumi's about halfway done with browning the meat and vegetables for curry. His usual, boisterous "I'm home," is gone, replaced with something more subdued.

Iwaizumi still looks up to greet him, answering with his own "welcome back." A moment later he adds, "The rice's still cooking, I haven't put the sauce in either."

"The sauce?" Oikawa asks, toeing his shoes off in the entryway. "What are you making?"

"Hayashi rice," Iwaizumi answers without looking up from the pot where he's stirring to incorporate the roux. "That's good?"

"Tasting Iwa-chan's home cooking is good enough for me," Oikawa hums lightly. Iwaizumi only has the moment's warning that Oikawa's footsteps give him before Oikawa's full weight settles against his back, arms wound tight around his waist, forehead pressed to his shoulder.

He tenses, but doesn't shove off. His grip shifts on his chopsticks, pausing for a moment before he sets to stirring the contents of the pot again.

"Comfortable?" Iwaizumi grunts a moment later.

Oikawa's grip tightens, a rough exhale wetting the fabric of Iwaizumi's shirt beneath his lips. "It's all right?" he asks.

Iwaizumi's gaze tilts up, his eyes tracking the wisps of steam as they escape into the air over the stove. His lips curl a moment before he swallows hard against the weight in his throat.

"If you think I didn't know what I was getting into with all of this you're an idiot," he says.

"Iwa-chan, that's mean," Oikawa protests, half-hearted.

"It's the truth," Iwaizumi says. "You're terrible at keeping secrets. You're too damn honest, and you're just going to keep charging forward, no matter what."

Oikawa's head turns against his back, his cheek pressed to Iwaizumi's shoulder. Iwaizumi can hear the pout in his voice.

"I don't know if I'm being complimented or insulted."

"I'm telling you who you are," Iwaizumi answers without hesitation. "And that's the guy I'm living with. That's the guy I grew up with. The guy who pisses me off even though I love him. So, whatever. It's fine, Oikawa. It's just you."

"Iwa-chan," is Oikawa's only reply, breathless in its intensity.

Oikawa's hands are tight around his waist by the time he's finished. He can feel them trembling, like a live wire humming with energy. Iwaizumi squirms, Oikawa's grip just at the edge of uncomfortable, but it's not getting any looser. He shoves one hand at Oikawa's wrist in protest.

"Asshole, get off. I still need to finish with dinner."

"Say it again, Iwa-chan," Oikawa insists, nuzzling intently against the back of Iwaizumi's neck.

"No way--" Iwaizumi protests on instinct, a shiver racing up his spine. "I told you I've got dinner to finish!"

"Not the whole thing," Oikawa says, still clinging onto him. "Just the important part!"

"Important part?" Iwaizumi tries to turn but Oikawa's grip won't let him. He huffs in frustration, stirring the pot in a deliberate effort to ignore Oikawa's advances. "What the hell are you talking about?"

Oikawa pinches against his stomach before he relents. Iwaizumi yelps in protest and nearly swats his hand with the back of the spoon.

"You can't tell me that you just confessed and you don't think it's important," Oikawa pouts, turning to retreat to the living room.

All at once, Iwaizumi freezes. He doesn't think he's ever felt his blood rush to his face as quickly as it has in the last split second. If this were some kind of anime there'd probably be a poof of steam rising off his head. Instead, he's left staring at Oikawa, eyes wide with an expression that's half shock and half disbelief.

Oikawa turns just in time to see it. Iwaizumi knows he must look ridiculous, especially with the way that Oikawa's mock pout vanishes into thin air with the blink of an eye.

"No way--" Oikawa says, his lips twisted with the sort of grimace that means he's both trying to hold back a laugh but failing on purpose. "Iwa-chan, you didn't even realize you said it, did you?"

"Shut up!" Iwaizumi barks back, snapping his attention back to the stove. "It's not the first time I've said it, anyway!"

Yet just as the words slip from his mouth he finds himself paging through memories, wracking his brain to try to find some other instance, some other situation where he's said those words. He's thought them plenty of times. He can barely get through a day without the thought crossing his mind. It's there in the early light of morning when he sometimes catches Oikawa's face nuzzled up next to his on the pillow or in the evening when the two of them press side to side on the couch, watching some dumb variety show or ridiculous drama on TV. He's thought it over and over again, there's no way in hell he hasn't said it--is there?

Behind him Oikawa's barely contained laughter has swapped places with incredulous shock. "Iwa-chan--you thought you had--"

"You knew, didn't you?" Iwaizumi turns on him again, a sudden panic gripping him, the thought of Oikawa holding that sort of doubt inside himself for this long sinks its fangs into him before he realizes what he's just asked.

Oikawa blinks at him, eyes still wide in surprise, before his face splits in a wide grin again.

"Of course I did," he waves a hand, dispelling the worry like it's nothing. "I didn't think you'd go this far if you didn't, Iwa-chan."

"Oh--" Iwaizumi lets go of a breath he's been holding for too long. The back and forth of their conversation leaves him breathless and dizzy. He's not even sure he could make sense of the whiplash of the last few minutes.

He clears his throat, running a hand through his hair to the back of his neck.

"Good," he says, forcibly loosing the tension built in his shoulders. "Why the hell didn't you tell me I hadn't said it before?"

Oikawa shrugs lightly. "I know you, Iwa-chan. I knew it was either you were saving it for something special or it was just a given and you didn't realize it hadn't come out yet."

"Ass," Iwaizumi says without heat.

"But how do you feel about me~?" Oikawa singsongs, stepping past Iwaizumi into the kitchen to gather the plates for dinner.

Staring down at the sauce bubbling in the pot, Iwaizumi feels the knot of his earlier worries worn away into nothing. With the warmth spreading through his chest, it seems silly to think that there was ever anything that could keep the two of them apart.

He huffs, letting a short breath out through his nose before reaching up to flick the heat on the stove off.

"I love you, idiot."

\---

The wet heat of summer and the rush of Iwaizumi's impending exams and Oikawa's impending departure sweep the next few weeks away like they're nothing. The scandal of Oikawa's press conference still lingers at the edges of it all in the shape of scattered photographers loitering around their apartment and at the university campuses. It's annoying at first, but it doesn't take long for Iwaizumi to figure out what sort of rude gestures and terrible angles mean that nothing gets published.

Oikawa's birthday nearly sideswipes Iwaizumi like an oncoming truck in traffic. He's had the present picked out for over a month now: a few choice pictures of the two of them together in a card sized album, luggage tags that look like little green alien heads with a few other things to make the trip to Brazil more bearable.

The party, however, somehow escaped his notice and went for broke until the night before when Oikawa's settled into bed next to him and asks, "Do you want to meet me at the station or at my campus?"

"Mmnh?" is Iwaizumi's first response, already half-asleep.

Two seconds later Oikawa's fingers pinch his nose shut that leaves him flailing in bed and suddenly wide awake.

"What the hell shittykawa--" he sputters, grabbing a pillow and smacking Oikawa upside the head with it.

"Iwa-chan--" Oikawa protests, lifting one arm to block the blow before he fixes Iwaizumi with a pointed look. "I'm asking you about my party tomorrow! Where are we meeting?"

"Your--" Iwaizumi blinks, thoughts falling quickly back into order. "Oh--shit, right, that's tomorrow."

"Yes, it's tomorrow." Oikawa plucks the pillow from Iwaizumi's hands, dropping it onto his side of the bed before collapsing onto it possessively. "You don't have plans, I checked your calendar. Just tell me where we're meeting."

Iwaizumi scowls, reaching for the edges of the pillow to try tugging it out from under Oikawa's body.

"I gotta grab some things here first. The station works."

Oikawa squirms, his grip tightening with a satisfied look on his face. "All right, the station it is. You'd better not forget, Iwa-chan."

Iwaizumi grunts. "Like hell I'd forget--ass--give me my pillow back!"

"Nooo way," Oikawa hums, burrowing his face into the mass of pillows. "This is Iwa-chan's punishment, no pillow for you tonight."

"I've got class in the morning tomorrow, jerk!"

Oikawa fakes an impressive yawn, twisting and turning his back to Iwaizumi with both pillows hugged tight to his chest. "Then you'd better get some rest. Good night, Iwa-chan."

Iwaizumi glares at Oikawa's back through the darkness of their bedroom. Then, without warning, he leans in and bites the back of Oikawa's neck. He gets his pillow back.

The mark is still on Oikawa's neck when they meet at the station the next evening. Iwaizumi flushes a little whenever he sees it, glancing over at where Oikawa's standing next to him on the train. Oikawa's made no move to hide it. The collar of his t-shirt sinks low against his back, leaving the red and faintly purple bruised skin out in the open for all to see.

Iwaizumi's sure no one spares it much thought aside from a quite realization of "oh, he must have a girlfriend," or something like that. But even something that simple prickles on the edge of his skin, unsettling him. It's not a girlfriend, he wants to say. He doesn't belong to anyone else, he wants to correct them.

When the doors slide open at their stop, he reaches out to grab Oikawa's hand without thinking. Their fingers lace together on instinct, held tight and warm together. It's me, Iwaizumi declares to all the onlookers in the firm strength of his grip. He's mine.

For the party, Oikawa's rented out an entire rooftop bar in Shibuya. They arrive early so Oikawa has a chance to chat with the management. Matsukawa and Hanamaki show up shortly after to help with decorations and set up. To Iwaizumi's surprise, they've somehow managed to convince Yahaba and Kyoutani to come along as well. When the two of them arrive together, Iwaizumi lifts a suspicious eyebrow in Kyoutani's direction. The way that Kyoutani's surly glare quickly cuts off to the side is the only explanation he needs.

Once the party starts, it doesn't take long for the bar to turn into an absolute mess of people. True to form, it seems like Oikawa's invited nearly every person he knows and then some. Iwaizumi swears that he's seen the entire roster of the national team in the past half hour, not to mention what feels like every single person from every one of Oikawa's lectures. Every single one of them seems to have dragged along at least two or three other people as well, which leaves Iwaizumi pinging back and forth between old friends and completely unfamiliar faces.

He loses track of Oikawa as quickly as he finds him flitting from group to group, cheeks flushed and beaming as he strikes up conversations with complete strangers, sucking them in with his natural charisma, drawing out the sort of vivacious laughter that's defined each and every one of his parties from as far back as Iwaizumi remembers.

Iwaizumi can feel a twinge in his chest at the familiarity of it. When he was younger he'd always groused about Oikawa's parties. What was the point of inviting so many people anyway? They weren't all his friends, were they? But he quickly learned that this was the sort of thing Oikawa loved. Setting a stage where he could plant himself as the center of attention, letting his roots branch out and spread through the messy net of people that he'd gathered around himself. That was the sort of place where Oikawa flourished, and Iwaizumi couldn't help but adore him for it.

He finds himself drawn more to the fringes of the crowd. Hanamaki and Matsukawa offer familiar faces and easy conversation. Even Kyoutani drunkenly stumbles into their group at one point in time, flushed with wide eyed intensity as he babbles to Iwaizumi about how the team performed during his third year at the Spring Tournament. It's awkward and fumbling, Yahaba has to rescue him from it halfway through, but Iwaizumi can't help but grin at the display. It's good to see the legacy that he and Oikawa left behind growing into something. Hopefully Kyoutani and Yahaba have planted seeds of their own.

The night charges forward with reckless abandon. Iwaizumi doesn't even realize how late it is until he notices members of the party slowly peeling away, discussions of a  _ nijikai _ floating on the air as their numbers grow thin. He's out on the patio, leaning against the railing and looking out over the city while Hanamaki and Matsukawa have stumbled back to the bar for one last round.

One moment he's on his own and the next he feels the weight of Oikawa's chest against his back, Oikawa's hands slipping over his stomach and around his waist.

"I found you," Oikawa declares, resting his chin on Iwaizumi's shoulder.

Iwaizumi doesn't push against him, doesn't squirm. Instead he turns as much as he can to favor Oikawa with a heatless scowl.

"I've been here for the last hour. Were you even looking?"

"I'm the man of the hour, you know. I can't just wander off like some people," Oikawa says, feigning defensiveness.

Iwaizumi snorts, turning back to the city spread wide before them.

"I'm telling you I didn't wander off."

"I know, I know," Oikawa hums.

He's swaying, just a little. The slightest shift of his body right to left, arms loose about Iwaizumi's waist. Iwaizumi knows that means he's drunk, but he doesn't care. His cheeks were flushed hours ago, the warm buzz of alcohol hasn't quite left his system. He can have this moment, Oikawa at his back, Tokyo and the rest of the world before them.

Iwaizumi lets out a slow breath, his shoulders relaxing into the heat of Oikawa's hold when something catches on his thoughts.

"Oh--" he says, immediately pulling away from Oikawa's loose grip and ignoring the cry of "Iwa-chan" it earns him to rummage the bag at his feet.

He comes back a moment later with a neatly wrapped package in hand, holding it out to Oikawa.

"Your present," he says. "I figured it'd be better if I gave it to you here."

"Ah, Iwa-chan, you didn't have to," Oikawa chimes, positively glowing as he clutches the box to his chest in both hands.

Iwaizumi snorts, lips pursed in amusement. "And listen to you whine and complain about how I didn't get you a present?"

"I wouldn't complain," Oikawa protests.

"Like hell you wouldn't. You gonna open it?"

"Not just yet~" Oikawa's practically humming with energy right now. The glow of his smile is enough to make Iwaizumi's heart flutter in his chest. Oikawa's gorgeous when he's like this, simply breathtaking.

The momentary distraction of Iwaizumi's thoughts pulls to a halt as Oikawa fishes an envelope out of his pocket, holding it out to Iwaizumi in one hand.

"Here, this one's yours."

One eyebrow shoots up in question, Iwaizumi's face twisting with an incredulous expression.

"You're pretty late for mine," he says.

"I know that!" Oikawa says with a pout. "But even though we went on a date I still missed it so I wanted to make up for that!"

Fixing him with a scowl, Iwaizumi snatches the envelope from his hand. There's a little bit of heft to it, but not too much. Money would just be tacky and it isn't like Oikawa to go through so much effort for something so bland. Iwaizumi's gaze flicks down to the envelope for a moment, taking in the carefully written kanji of his name in Oikawa's handwriting before he glances back up, thumbing it open.

"You didn't need to make up for it, idiot. What we had was fine."

"I know, I know," Oikawa nods emphatically. "But after everything that happened, I felt like it still needed something more, so I talked to my agent and..."

"What--" Iwaizumi stammers, staring down at the envelope's contents.

Tucked away inside the thick paper are two plane tickets and a receipt: round trip airfare to Brazil and a hotel in the city just outside the Olympic village.

Iwaizumi literally feels his jaw drop. His nostrils flare, eyes opened wide as his head snaps up to stare at Oikawa in disbelief.

"You--"

"My agent helped me out," Oikawa explains, turning to look back out over the open city. "After I told him, after everything that happened at the press conference, he felt bad that there wasn't any way to change the outcome there. So, instead, he thought that he'd like to make it up to you by inviting you along for the ride."

"I--" Iwaizumi's mouth flops open like a fish. He's dumbfounded. He's known for month that there's no chance of him coming to see Oikawa's games in person. Even though none of the events fall during the same time as his exams and deadlines, the travel, tickets, and lodging all sums up to way more than what he can afford, jobless as he is at the moment.

Yet here, Oikawa's gathered all of that neatly for him, wrapped it up with a bow on top and given it to him.

Oikawa grins. The summer breeze picks up, ruffling his hair gently against bright cheeks and the insufferably sharp curve of his lips. He turns back, bracing himself against the railing, his gaze fixed on Iwaizumi again.

"Happy birthday, Iwa-chan."

Iwaizumi's hand shoots out, curling tight around the fabric of Oikawa's shirt and hauling him in. Their lips crush together, Oikawa's fingers burying into Iwaizumi's hair not more than a heartbeat later. Through the rush of his heartbeat in his ears, Iwaizumi's vaguely aware of the sound of Hanamaki and Matsukawa's return, accompanied by drunken congratulations for the happy couple. He releases Oikawa just to flip them off, ignoring the amused laughter that earns him in reply.

Just a little under a year ago it had seemed like a dream. The thought of seeing Oikawa take the court in that red jersey. The wish of knowing that when Oikawa's victory comes, Iwaizumi will be there waiting for him on the sidelines, adrenaline pounding in his veins in a heady rush.

He's practically giddy when he breaks the kiss. There's no point in trying to hide the unbridled joy in his smile so he doesn't even bother. In this moment everything that's passed, everything that's brought them to where they are seems to fit perfectly into place. It's all led up to this feeling, to knowing that no matter what comes their way, they can take on the world together.

Oikawa's staring at him, still holding on. His eyes are hazy with alcohol and the smug contentment that Iwaizumi knows coming from stirring that sort of reaction out of him.

He'll grant Oikawa that victory. Somehow, he knows there's just going to be more of them to come.

"Happy birthday, Oikawa."


End file.
